LEO WAS A SOFTIE

Mary DeaseCHICAGO TRIBUNE

The distinction was mine, two decades ago, of working as a teenage secretary for the Chicago Cubs.

Picture the end of my first spring training: six weeks of desert life endured as the outcast, the baby, the little misfit. One day of camp remained. From my desk in the trailer office, I realized the team`s general manager was tense. Two more roster cuts and a possible trade were in the works. Meanwhile, I was so proud of having packed everything the previous day.

No one had told me not to pack the pads of assignment papers, the blank documents on which baseball trades are officially typed. After the general manager demanded a supply, his reaction conveyed the scope of my blunder. Screaming! Door slamming! Profanity! The traveling secretary stood silent. The PR director was mum. In hushed tones, the farm club boss phoned his compound. Perhaps a spare pad was there. And I sat with my face in my hands.

As I look back, all were leery of the Cubs general manager and hoped to stay out of his way. The exception was one person who happened to appear in cleats, cap and full uniform.

Number two. Leo Durocher.

Out of nowhere, his arms surrounded me. His fingers brushed beneath my eye and with that supposedly roughneck voice conveyed my rescue. ''Mary. Maar- reeee. It`s all right, darlin`. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we`re all gonna go home.'' For me it was comfort unlike any other kind.

In the `90s, some would be quick to term this male-female incident a form of workplace harassment. No way!